Chapter Eight
It was a nearly full moon and cloudless night at the end of Indian Road, so Roscoe could see everything, including the hunched-over figure creeping along between the driveway and the bushes that lined the fence.
Roscoe’s ears pricked up. Unlike his smaller, yappier brethren, Roscoe didn’t rush out to greet his foe because he was better than that. He was a 95-pound shepherd mix, a veteran of police work. He was so smart and reliable that Jim didn’t chain him or fence him, and he lived in a comfortable house next to the barn where he enjoyed plenty of blankets and water and food. His arrangement, actually, was better than Jim’s, who was living in an old travel trailer parked next to his burned-out house, with a comical arrangement of water and sewer lines draped between the
